


Prayer

by wbss21



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 06:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wbss21/pseuds/wbss21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki listens. And he hears the mortal's prayers. Sometimes he will deign to answer them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prayer

Prayer

Chapter 1:

Asgard 523 BC

Within his rooms, inside his bed chamber, along the mat of finely woven straw which serves for his place of rest, Loki sits.

And he listens.

Eyes closed and legs crossed beneath him, hands rested against his knees, back straight postured.

Innumerable voices fill his mind, thousands upon thousands overlapping and blending and fusing together as one.

He listens, and he waits, working to discern those which merit interest.

There are so many.

And he must choose with care.

Mortals.

Humans.

Beings who worship his own people as their gods. Who offer sacrifice and loyalty and send up their prayers in desperate supplication, longing to be heard. To be answered.

Among them all, Loki knows, it is only he who truly listens.

They all are capable; his brethren. They all may hear, if they would open themselves to it as he does now.

But they do not.

So rare the occasion one among his peers takes heed the prayers of mortals, he can scarcely recall when last another beside him did.

Several centuries, at least.

The mortals are beneath their notice; or so sounds the general thought.

But Loki is wont to disagree, as he is with so many the notions of the Aesir.

There is something of value to be gained, walking amongst the men and women of Midgard.

Of that, he is certain.

If not for simple amusement, and Loki can think of little else more valuable than to smile and laugh and enjoy, then to learn. To experience and discover and observe.

The mortals and their world, so ever changing, never remaining the same for more than the passing of a decade, and yet it is their natures which stay fixed.

In spite of all that shifts and moves around them, the ways in which their own led lives change, in which they govern and control themselves, and the rapid development of adaptation, despite it all, they themselves fail always to learn.

Fail to lift above what is their constant struggle to survive.

They have learned to harvest food, not simply hunt after it. But still, there is famine and hunger and greedy hording of sustenance.

No longer are their wars consisted of small skirmishes between bands of nomads, but large in scale and breadth, and fought with weaponry of so much greater savagery than the sticks and stones of long before. And Loki is without doubt those weapons will grow in power rapidly, to one day the threat of their own existence.

Yet still those wars are fought for the same, petty desires and consuming fears.

Ownership of land and the power of rule. Loki has naught seen a Realm filled with so many Kings and Lords, Ceases and Emperors.

And Loki finds himself wondering often, to what end?

They die so quickly, these humans.

No sooner does one gain the power and control he so seeks, does he than die but a handful of seasons later, from either the failing body of his decrepit age, or the jealous betrayal of one among his peers, lusting after that power and control himself.

Loki knows the gods look upon the petty struggles of mortals with disdain. Disgusted by their frailty and pathetic clinging to life.

But Loki can muster no such contempt for the creatures.

He finds them instead… fascinating.

They fight with such fervor, one might even say valiantly. Even knowing their own end, knowing their own mortality. It does nothing to lessen their will to live. And Loki can at times find himself almost admiring the little beings, if for nothing else than their nerve in the face of their own purposeless existence.

And so he listens, and he hears their prayers, and at times, when whim takes him thus, he will answer.

He is the only one that does.

Yet in this are those times the trickster god may feel some form of resentment towards the mortals. For rare is it his answering presence is met with gratitude and joy, but rather wariness and fear.

His reputation, apparently, proceeds him.

He sneers at the thought.

He does not understand the apprehension with which he finds himself regarded, among them most especially.

Aye, he is a trickster, and it is not beyond him to play such tricks upon the humans.

But ever is his mischief harmless and without malice. And by the Norns, has not he gifted them with the greatest tool of their survival?!

Is it not he who brought them the gift of deception and guile and wit? Is it not he whom taught the mortals to lie?

And what would their lives be without such knowledge as he has imparted them?

By Odin's beard, they would all be dead! With their violent and lustful natures and fear driven intents, without the ability to deceive, to hide and bend the truth, they all would have torn each other limb from limb, and never made it to the civilized empires they boast so proudly of now.

And yet when he reveals himself to them, they stumble back in horror and dismay, and look upon him with inherent mistrust, at times, outright hatred.

Worst of all are those ones who dare berate him, jabbing angry fingers through the air towards his person and lamenting that it was Thor whom they sent their prayers to. And why had he come, why had he stolen Thor's prayers?

Thor?

Loki wants, nay, often does laugh in the face of their protests.

Thor, his oafish older brother, has all the interest in their affairs and concerns as a cat has with the well being of a mouse. He desires so much to tell them, but holds his tongue in respect to his kin.

And how simple they must be, to deign Thor's presence more vital to them than his?

Thunder and lightening are spectacular but unnecessary tools to their goal of survival. The ability to lie and fool are not. And aye, Loki will grant, Thor brings them rain, and in this, he is essential to their lives.

But no more than he!

It causes the mischief god to bristle in frustration at the injustice of it all, and there have been those times, he will admit to himself, he thought to wash his hands of the mortals and close his ears to their cries and pleas as the rest of his people have done.

But… no matter his resolve in those moments of indignant rage, he again and again finds himself drawn back to their entreaties, listening… and going…

As he listens now, all will focused on their words.

Most are beneath his consideration, or his ability, and he spends not more than an instant hearing before he shifts on to the next. Humans begging for rain, for a healthy crop. Less acknowledgeable, praying for fortune and renown, or to be noticed by the one they pine for.

Others begging to be saved from tormenting giants or trolls, those Loki gives greater thought to, and often will he travel to Midgard to answer such calls.

Always he thinks of Thor on such excursions, and how jealous his brother would be, to know he was missing out on such an opportunity as to thrash the enemies of the Aesir.

But such are the benefits of hearing the cries of humans, and there is little much he can do, if the crown prince sees not the merits in the activity.

Loki has tried to tell him, to share in the adventure, but Thor, he listens not, more contented to lead his own quests and horde all the glory himself. He has naught a tendril of interest if it is not he leading the charge.

Foolish oaf.

Loki lights upon one such prayer, a man, a farmer, praying to the gods for salvation from a marauding troll, a beast who has been tormenting their village for a fortnight. The creature has destroyed many a crop and stolen countless of their livestock already, and this is not the first prayer Loki has received concerning this particular monster.

He is just on the cusp of accepting the plea when another voice pulls him from his decision.

A child's voice.

A girl's.

Loki's brow furrows as he listens.

Her voice is soft, barely heard, and he might have missed it had not his concentration been so refined.

Children's prayers.

Theirs are the only ones he receives and answers for pure sake of the sender.

For benefit to them and no incentive to himself.

Children.

They are his only worshipers who receive him without judgment. Who look upon him without fear or mistrust in their eyes. Without scowling faces and displeased sneers, but only awe and excitement for a god gracing their presence, for having their voices heard by one among their Lords.

He dismisses the farmer's prayer quickly, and re-concentrates his mind on the girl.

She is young, he can tell. Perhaps no more than twenty seasons.

And her prayer is filled with tears, distressed and broken and full of despair.

A state unfitting in one so young.

She begs for her father, for the life of him, months since departed from their world, and Loki feels himself hesitate.

Many has he brought back from the brink of their own demise. Pulled from the clutches of Hela herself and their bodies restored.

He has saved many lives.

But never has he deigned to recapture an already departed soul and return it to its body. Restore it to life when already it has been dead.

Never has he answered such a prayer, though countless of such he has received.

But the girl…

She is so very young, and alone, and in her tearful pleas he hears desperate hope and belief.

She trusts in her gods to hear her, and help her.

She trusts in him.

It is against all good judgment, to answer her.

He knows this.

A foolish endeavor at best. Idiotic heroics more attuned to Thor's line of thinking than his own.

To go to her can only lead to his own detriment, of that, Loki is certain.

But he has heard her, and she believes.

Her faith is strong.

Stronger than most.

And he cannot deny this girl her faith.

He cannot deny her her trust in him.

His eyes open, and he stands, gathers his armor to him, his staff and his helm.

And he steps through to the spaces between.

He walks to her.

To Midgard.

Only a shadow of himself left behind.


End file.
